


Concerning the Shadow Angel of Soho

by argyle4eva



Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [20]
Category: Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Romance, This time they don't get a room
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-28 04:15:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,183
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22647766
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/argyle4eva/pseuds/argyle4eva
Summary: Aziraphale and Crowley have a bit of fun on a visit back to London, and end up creating a local landmark.Written for Mielpetit/mielpetite'sIneffable Valentines prompt list, Day 13 – Grand gesture/All this time.This one's a little squishy in terms of properly answering the prompt, but it was the best idea I had on the fly, and I hope it's enjoyable enough to pass.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Wise As Serpents, Innocent As Doves [20]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1535606
Comments: 7
Kudos: 49
Collections: Ineffable Valentines 2020





	Concerning the Shadow Angel of Soho

**Author's Note:**

> I'm in the process of moving, and my internet is going to transfer over to my new place sooner than expected, without a lot of warning (and I probably will have a long pause while I get the computer back up), so I'm putting up Day 13 and Day 14 of the challenge early, and all at once. Apologies for any editorial roughness, since I don't have as much time to polish these as expected, but I think they're in pretty decent shape. Happy Valentine's Day, and I'll see folks on the other side . . .

After a visit to the bookstore (which was becoming almost a weekly occurrence, as Aziraphale thought of more and more gaps in his South Downs library that needed filling; Crowley had long since become resigned to relocating the lot, one box at a time), Aziraphale suggested a stop at his favorite Soho pub.

The establishment had been there a long time – long enough to have gone through a disreputable-but-friendly stage, followed more recently by renovation and refinement into a comparatively genteel watering hole. Aziraphale was fond of it in part because he’d always been welcome and felt comfortable there (whether it was reputable or not), and, more recently, the new owner/bartender had become a particular acquaintance. Tom had an ear for neighborhood gossip and a remarkable memory, which made him a useful resource – even more so now that Aziraphale wasn’t a full-time resident. As the owner of a relatively large property, it was always good to keep track of what was happening with the area; living in Soho for more than 200 years had provided a memorable education in how times and fortunes could change.

“Mr. Fell! It’s been a while.”

“Hello, Tom,” Aziraphale said, settling onto a barstool. Tom insisted on being addressed by his first name because, “Otherwise, it sounds like you’re talking to my Dad.” At the same time, though, he dutifully called Aziraphale "Mr. Fell," in honor of his bookshop's venerable heritage (Aziraphale usually told people he was a relative of the original Mr. Fell, because it was simplest, and, in a way, _almost_ true).

“This is, er, Anthony,” Aziraphale added, as Crowley took a stool next to him, making a snap judgement, because introducing Tom to "Mr. Crowley" seemed far too stuffy, and Crowley's name wasn't on a bookshop anywhere, so far as Aziraphale knew.

“Pleased to finally meet you – I’ve seen you around,” Tom said, with a friendly nod (he couldn’t offer his hand, because he was in the process of drawing a pint), which Crowley returned. Tom pushed the finished pint across the bar and cocked his head, obviously spotting the wedding rings – not just because of the glamour that drew attention to them. He was a keen observer, which Aziraphale valued. “Are congratulations in order?”

“We were married at the end of summer,” Aziraphale told him, which was the simplest explanation possible.

“Been busy since then, that makes sense. I’d say this calls for pints on the house.”

He took their orders, pulled their pints, and then he and Aziraphale started up a friendly conversation about the latest doings in the area.

Crowley was mostly content to sip and listen as Aziraphale was caught up on local comings and goings, adding the occasional comment of his own. While Crowley hadn’t lived in Soho, he’d been around enough (both on the job and visiting Aziraphale) that he knew the territory fairly well. Eventually, though, as the details and people became more obscure, he began to get twitchy. Aziraphale, noticing, started winding down the conversation.

Before he could finish, Crowley drained the last of his pint, dismounted from his bar stool with a remarkably sinuous twitch of his hips, and said, “Back in a tic,” before sauntering in the direction of the gents. Since his metabolic functions were optional, it was a blatant excuse to take his pelvis for a walk in Public Display mode.

The other patrons, to a man, were suitably appreciative.

Even Tom watched Crowley’s progress with interest, and sighed when Crowley (and his pelvis) turned the corner out of sight.

“If you don’t mind my saying so, you’re a lucky man, Mr. Fell,” was his only comment.

Aziraphale, who’d also been watching (it was difficult not to), smiled. “Yes. Yes, I am, thank you.” He finished his pint and set down his glass, the ring on his finger giving an extra flash as the glamour kicked up a notch.

When Crowley returned, walking slowly enough to give everyone a proper show going in the other direction, Aziraphale was waiting, and took Crowley’s hand as he said his farewells to Tom. Crowley managed not to smirk, though one corner of his mouth did twitch upwards a bit. With a final wave, and a very distinct glimmer of magically enhanced gold, they were out the door.

“Ramping up your spell, hmmm?” Crowley murmured in Aziraphale’s ear.

“It seemed prudent,” Aziraphale replied.

“Showing off a little, too?” Crowley continued, almost purring.

“That would make two of us,” Aziraphale teased in return. “You weren’t exactly holding back.”

Crowley leaned in a bit closer and rumbled, “Do you like it, knowing you’re the only one who’s ever had me and ever will?"

“Crowley!” Yes, Aziraphale _did_ like that, very much, and it was enough to remind him that “making an Effort” had long since stopped taking actual _effort_ , as far as Crowley was concerned. In fact, it was ridiculously easy. It could happen all on its own, pretty much. It was happening _now._

Oh, well, since things were going that direction already . . . Aziraphale matched Crowley’s low, conspiratorial tone, and added, “I do. And I assume you’re equally pleased to know you’ve _ruined_ me for anyone else, ever again.”

“ _Ngk_.”

Aziraphale couldn’t resist a smile, knowing he’d scored a point . . . but the problem was, he was now stuck on a busy street with both himself and his sexy husband very much not-needing-to-make-an-Effort. “Oh, dear. What now?”

“We can’t put it off,” Crowley said back to a purr. “Can’t have you getting into a _state_ again.”

Which did _not_ help.

Aziraphale knew better than to suggest the bookstore as a venue; Crowley still wasn’t in a good mental place for that. But their options were limited . . . which was how Crowley ended up in the alley against the back wall of the pub with his legs wrapped around Aziraphale’s waist, getting one of the wilder rides of his life thus far.

They were in no danger of discovery, covered as they were by both a bubble of stopped time and a misdirection strong enough to have hidden a T-rex taking a stroll through Trafalgar Square in broad daylight. But there was still a delightfully wicked sense of doing something both very forbidden and very, very enjoyable together.

Crowley, with his hands on Aziraphale’s shoulders for better leverage, instinctively flared his wings, bracing them outspread and flat against the bricks behind him, for balance and cushioning. Aziraphale greatly appreciated that visual, made his approval known, and neither of them lasted much longer than that.

They kept their positions for a moment, gasping, then Crowley folded his wings and slid down in Aziraphale’s arms until his feet were back on the ground. They held each other, gigging helplessly, in part because they only then became aware of the magic the other had been using to keep them hidden. There’d been no coordination, just instinct.

“Well, I reckon nobody saw us.”

“That’s a safe assumption.”

Another round of conspiratorial laughter, followed by a quick bit of cleanup and reclothing, and the two of them departed the alley – so momentarily happy and besotted they didn’t notice what they’d left behind.

\---

“It’s disguzzzting.”

Two mismatched figures studied the wall space that Crowley and Aziraphale had recently occupied, wearing identical postures of annoyance.

“They have no shame,” Gabriel agreed.

Before them, burnt into the brick itself, was the shadowy outline of an enormous pair of outspread wings. Any being with metaphysical senses could have zero doubt about the process by which the mark had been created.

“Isn’t there some clause you can invoke to make them stop?” Gabriel asked. It wasn’t the only trace left in London lately - there was also The Hotel That Shall Not Be Named, which had acquired a psychic aura discernible from half a kilometer away. Heaven only knew how long _that_ would take to fade.

Beelzebub gave a buzzing sigh. “Unfortunately, it doezz not violate anything in the contract.”

“Can you renegotiate?”

The pointed, sidelong glare Gabriel received informed him how likely (or not) the renegotiation of any demonic contract would be.

“How about you?” ze asked in return, forcing the irritated buzz out of zir voice. “Anything you can leverage out of that ‘gentlemen’s agreement’ between you and Aziraphale?”

Gabriel gestured at the wall. “Gentlemen don’t talk about things like _this_ ,” he said in exasperation.

A moment of shared, glum silence.

“Screw it. I’m going to get some coffee and pretend this isn’t here,” Gabriel declared after a moment.

“Likewise.”

\---

Eventually, even ordinary humans noticed what they took to be an odd, but rather lovely, bit of street art, not having the senses to recognize it for what it was. Over time, a story grew that if one was photographed (via friend or selfie) in such a way that it looked as if the shadowy, stenciled wings were sprouting from one’s shoulders, it conveyed good luck, especially in matters of romance.

Tom, equally clueless about the origin of the “art” on his back wall, took it on himself to make sure it was kept clear and visible (not that it would have been easy to eradicate; close inspection would have revealed that the brick itself was darkened several centimeters deep), because it certainly didn’t hurt business.

A few months later, _New Aquarian_ even dispatched their new star reporter, Anthema Device, to write an article about it. Not being a terribly romantic person (and already in a relationship), she was unimpressed, but the photograph Newt took of her still made a striking cover image for the next issue.

\---

A name began to circulate, either the "Angel's Shadow" or the "Shadow Angel," depending on who you asked. Its fame spread beyond London when the Shadow was used as a backdrop (filmed on location) in a fairly popular romantic movie, with the lovesick heroine taking a now-traditional selfie, in hopes of getting supernatural aid in catching her love interest's attention. Between the movie and the internet (plus the _New Aquarian_ article, for a more select clientele), people around the world got to know the story of the Shadow Angel, and it became a minor tourist attraction, with several Pinterest pages devoted to the holiday photos people shared.

\---

Eventually, there was even an article in the Sunday magazine of one of Azriaphale's print newspapers, "Ten (Different) Things To See While You're In London," and the Shadow Angel was Thing #4.

Crowley, thumbing through the magazine at the kitchen table while Aziraphale scanned the main paper's headlines, abruptly stopped, frowning. Then he made a strangled noise, followed by, "Aziraphale."

"Erm?" Aziraphale responded, still reading.

"Do you remember that time in the alley? Behind the pub in Soho?"

"Pardon?" Aziraphale asked, looking up and trying to reconcile two very different trains of thought. "You mean, when we . . .?"

"I think we accidentally dumped too much magic at once." Crowley flipped the magazine around so that Aziraphale could see the full-page photo showing the unmistakable outline of wings burned onto a brick wall - and not just any wings, _Crowley's_ wings specifically. The time freeze _and_ the overpowered misdirection _and_ the intensity of what was going on between two magical beings (one of them manifesting occult wings, even), in the same small area . . .

"Oh, good Lord," Aziraphale breathed. "Has that been there _all this time_?" They'd visited the pub, and Tom, many times since then, but had restrained themselves from any further alleyway adventures, and had somehow completely missed any other mentions of their unintended foray into public art.

"Evidently." Crowley managed to hold it together for a second more, then sputtered into laughter. "Sorry, angel, but your _face_ . . ."

Aziraphale was going pink, and he knew it, which only made him pinker. "Oh, dear, poor Tom."

"I think Tom's doing pretty well off it, actually. Look at the souvenir pint glasses he's got for sale." Crowley pointed to a small inset image in the article of a glass printed with, yes, a shadowy decal of Crowley's wings. "That's new since the last time we were there."

"Oh, _no_."

"I want one."

"Crowley!"

"All right, two, so you can have one. To commemorate your having me."

"Argh . . ." Aziraphale removed his reading glasses and massaged the bridge of his nose. Then, because there was nothing else to do, he finally began to laugh.

"If it helps, people like it. They think it's lucky."

"I suppose it's appropriate. _We_ got lucky."

That set Crowley laughing again. When he caught his breath, he said, "As far as accidental magical discharges go -" Aziraphale snorted at "discharges" and began laughing harder, his mind thoroughly lost in the gutter - " _really_ , angel, I'm shocked! Anyway, It's pretty benign, I'd say."

Aziraphale sucked in a shaky breath and managed to stop laughing.

"Well," he said.

"'The Shadow Angel,'" Crowley mused. "I like it. Makes me sound like a superhero or vigilante or something."

"'The Shadow Angel knows,'" Aziraphle intoned, then began giggling. "In the Biblical sense of the word." Then he was off again, laughing helplessly, while Crowley groaned and snickered.

They were utterly useless for any serious conversation the rest of the morning, as might be expected.


End file.
